Blogs from Shirl Sazynski - PaganSquare - Join the conversation!http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat.html
Sun, 02 Aug 2015 15:34:17 -0700Joomla! - Open Source Content Managementen-gbAsatru 101: What is Seidhr? (Norse Shamanism)http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/asatru-101-what-is-seidhr-norse-shamanism.html
http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/asatru-101-what-is-seidhr-norse-shamanism.htmlOne of the frequent questions I get from budding Heathens is "Where do I start?" . After fielding two such questions in the same day from a divination client and prospective student, I began this series of articles. More resources can be found on my website.

Seidhr ("sayth" or "seethe") is a traditional form of visionary soul-magic, native to Northern and Central Europe. It involves deep empathy, mediumship and trance work, healing, spirit-travel and communication. Mastered by the Goddess Freyja, taught to Odin, and found throughout ancient lore in the form of history, saga and myth, seidhr is still practiced today by both the Saami people and modern Heathens. It is closely related to Siberian practices (from which we get the word shaman), but focuses primarily on Gods, ancestors and the webs of energy and fate.

The Druids and some Icelanders had similar practices. Utiseta ("sitting out") required staying covered up in darkness on top of a burial mound or other secluded place, while seeking a vision or communication with spirits. Druids, bards and poets used the imbas forasnai-- "the light of foresight"-- to see the future in visions or trance.

Seidhr can be used to meet and draw closer to the Gods and beloved ancestors, build friendly bonds with nature spirits, develop spiritually, heal and clear energies, and to inquire and receive advice about the web of fate (a practice called spae, often seen during a high-seat trance session). One of the direct references to seidhr in Norse myth comes from the ancient Icelandic poem Skirnismal, in which the God Frey sits in the kingly "high seat", glimpses the radiant Goddess Gerd in the Underworld, a place he cannot leave to visit himself, and becomes brooding and lovesick until they can be united. Another, from the Prose Edda, involves Loki borrowing Freyja's magical falcon cloak, in order to travel to the realm of the Giants in the form of a hawk.

Both the summoning by Odin and Freyja and the trances of the seers mentioned in Voluspa, Hyndluluid and Baldrs draumar also fall under seidhr practice, as does a historical account from Greenland in The Saga of Eirik the Red.

Need more details on seidhr practice? I'm teaching a workshop on solitary seidh and utiseta at PantheaCon in San Jose this Friday, February 13th at 9PM, and another on House Wights at 1:30 PM. Please say hello if you're at the conference. I hope to meet some of you there!

For examples of what the experience of seidhr is like, under a variety of conditions, read my articles on trancework here and in the magazines Sacred Hoop, Idunna and Eternal Haunted Summer.

Read more]]>shirl.sazynski@gmail.com (Shirl Sazynski)Paths BlogsMon, 02 Feb 2015 12:10:59 -0800Asatru 101 - Where Do I Start Practicing Heathenry??http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/asatru-101-how-do-i-get-started.html
http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/asatru-101-how-do-i-get-started.htmlOne of the frequent questions I get from budding Heathens, Asatruar and Norse pagans is "Where do I start?" After fielding two such letters in one day from a divination client and a prospective student (who already summons spirits in a Ceremonial framework but wanted to connect with the Norse Gods), I began compiling a page of resources on my website-- and this series of blog posts.

Since Heathenry is a living faith of active practice, the best place is always with a good local group, a kindred of kindhearted people open to teaching you. To find a good kindred, ask around among your pagan community or attend a regional Heathen gathering, a moot. Go to a Pagan Pride Day in your area, stop in at the metaphysical shops and book stores, and look for websites and Facebook pages for nearby groups, especially those who offer teaching and community outreach or participate in larger events.

Not all kindreds are open to the public, however, (some require oaths or sponsorship to participate in rites) so be patient. Heathenry is also not a monolith of organized creeds: local customs, forms of ritual, style of organization and even the Gods we worship within the Norse pantheon differ from person to person and kindred to kindred. Some groups are reconstructionists, focusing on the practices known from history and archaeology; others are open to a more modern, experiential-based practice.

Primary Sources - Know your Eddas, History & Archaeology

Heathenry and Asatru are not text-based faiths, nor are they limited to Scandinavian practice. Our sacred stories, beliefs, magical practices and customs are recorded in the literature, archaeology, oral lore and histories of countries across the Northern Hemisphere, from Greenland to Russia (and also, surprisingly, the US!). Sources include folklore, sagas, mythic lays, poetry and song, charms, children's games, fairy tales, local holidays and historical writings.

The most famous primary sources are the Poetic Edda, (a compilation of ancient lays recorded in Iceland, often seen as more purely pagan), and the Prose Edda, (a novel-like book of myths and the stories behind phrases used in poetry), written by Snorri Sturleson, a medieval Icelandic politician and poet. After much comparative study of the Norse diaspora, I also rely on multiple fairy tales recorded by the Brothers Grimm, and books of folklore from Scandinavia, Poland, Scotland and more.

Historical sources have to be read gently, understanding the cultural, religious and political agenda of the times, often tainted by hostility against their subject. These include Germania by the ancient Roman writer Tacitus, the medieval chronicles of Christian clerics Saxo Grammaticus and Adam of Bremen, writings by Byzantine historian Procopius (History of the Gothic Wars) and the records of Ibn Fadlan, an Islamic traveler to the state of Kievan Rus.

For more information, check out the helpful resources, writings, events and groups I've worked with or are familiar with here.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia and the Swedish Heathen group Forn Sed. Article cross-posted to Staffandcup.com.

Read more]]>shirl.sazynski@gmail.com (Shirl Sazynski)Paths BlogsMon, 19 Jan 2015 14:30:46 -0800Asatru 101 - What is Heathenry?http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/heathenry-101-what-is-heathenry.html
http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/heathenry-101-what-is-heathenry.htmlOne of the frequent questions I get from budding Heathens, Asatruar and Norse pagans is "Where do I start?" After fielding two such letters in one day from a divination client and a prospective student (who already summons spirits in a Ceremonial framework but wanted to connect with the Norse Gods), I began compiling a page of resources on my website-- and this series of blog posts.

Heathenry is a pagan faith based on the ancestral practices of Northern and Central Europe.

Heathenry (also regionally called Asatru, Urglaawe and Forn Sidr) is very different from Wicca. Instead, it resembles Hinduism, Shinto and Native American animist beliefs. We do not have covens, initiation by degrees, nor worship a binary "Lord and Lady" or a "Goddess", but a pantheon of Gods and Goddesses, heroes, ancestors and local spirits. Heathenry as a faith does not stress the use of spells and magic, but an ethic of honor, loyalty and excellence, with rituals incorporated into daily life and special occasions year-round. Individual Heathens often form close relationships with certain Gods or Goddesses, or choose to focus on venerating ancestors and nature spirits. Anyone can practice Heathenry, though many people feel especially called to seek out their "roots" in this branch of paganism.

It's not a text-based religion, nor is it limited to Scandinavian sources. Our sacred stories, beliefs, magical practices and customs are recorded in the literature, archaeology, oral lore and histories of countries across the Northern Hemisphere, from Greenland to Russia (and also, surprisingly, the US!). Sources include folklore, sagas, mythic lays, poetry and song, charms, children's games, fairy tales, local holidays and writings from ancient Roman, Byzantine, medieval Islamic and Christian chroniclers.

A Heathen priest/ess is typically known as a godthi or gythia (Godsperson). On our holy days, or during other cause for celebration, we give shared drink offerings known as blots. The most holy festival of Heathenry is Yule, celebrated on the Winter Solstice or during the Christmas holiday season. We call spirits and living sentient beings, including Gods, wights. The most common group rituals are sumbel and forms of hallowing (purification and making something holy). At sumbel, a horn or cup of mead, other alcohol or a non-alcoholic juice is passed around a circle. Each participant takes a sip and hails the Gods of the occasion, the ancestors and nature spirits, and finally boasts about an achievement. Any significant oaths are usually taken before witnesses at this time.

While Heathenry has many symbols, the Thor's Hammer, pictured above, is most commonly used.

Reproduction of a viking amulet courtesy of Wikipedia. Article cross-posted to Staffandcup.com.

Read more]]>shirl.sazynski@gmail.com (Shirl Sazynski)Paths BlogsMon, 12 Jan 2015 23:14:19 -0800Heathen Spindle Ritual to Frau Hollehttp://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/spindle-ritual-to-frau-holle.html
http://www.witchesandpagans.com/pagan-paths-blogs/one-eyed-cat/spindle-ritual-to-frau-holle.htmlIn this ritual, you will mirror the actions of the heroine in one of the Grimm's fairy tales, "Mother Holle", (also known as "The Golden Girl and the Pitch Maiden"), offering your cares and worries to the Goddess by dropping them on a spindle into a fresh water "well" and praying for her assistance in resolving them. A traditional Northern European blot, a drink offering, begins the ritual. This simplified rite, suitable to any time of year, is part of a longer Norse Winternights Ceremony I wrote honoring the ancestors and the Wild Hunt during the autumn. An especially ideal time for it would be on Mothers' Night, the evening before Yule. (More information on Holle's symbols and nature can be found within that Ceremony.)

Frau Holle (or the young girl who faithfully served her) by Otto Ubbelohde.

It's the season of Winternights, typically celebrated during October or very early November, the time of the ancestors, akin to the Celtic Samhain. It is a time of turning inward, of female power, when the Disir, the ancient Mothers, visit their descendants, and the Wild Hunt rides, gathering the lost souls who have died in the last year and driving away those spirits who would harm us. In central Europe, one form of the Wild hunt is led by a Goddess.

Frau Holle (Frow Hohl-leh) is the head of the continental German pantheon, known in Scandinavia as Frigg, and deeply connected to the underworld Goddess Helle. The "fairy" Godmother of so many Grimm's tales, she battles frost Giants and restores order to the world. Like her husband, Odin, she leads the Wild Hunt, gentler troupes of lost children and women who die in childbirth, and the wandering spirits from Winternights to Yule and in the Spring at Walpurgisnight (Beltane). A Goddess of order, work, destiny, childbirth and children, death and womanhood, of magic and wild places, she is often depicted weaving and rewards hard work and loyalty.

PREPARATION

You will need a well, pool or pond, a horn or cup, cherry juice or alcohol such as mead or San Germain (elderflower liquor) as age-appropriate, and a spindle as an offering-- and possibly a trowel. (A simple spindle can be made from a dowel or stick; see directions below.) The Well, which will be ideally a pond or lake, or simply a beautiful planter or deep bowl filled with water, figures prominently in folklore and surviving tales as a sacred object for contacting Holle.

Finding the Right Spot -

Excellent locations for this ritual include mountain tops, misty and boggy places, such as beside a garden well, pond or spring or groves of her sacred trees, such as juniper, linden and birch or aspen.

If you hold the ritual inside, please make sure your house, especially the kitchen, is tidy! Holle is a Goddess of order, after all.

How to Make the Spindle -

Use a stick or dowel of an appropriate wood, about 8-12 inches long, preferably trimmed and dried before the ritual.

Use a ball or large skein or cotton, wool or other natural fiber crochet thread or yarn.

Notch the stick toward the middle to catch the thread, and carve/paint the spindle rune Naudhiz in blood red at both ends of the spindle, or along its body. Carve Othala, the distaff rune, on its body.

Runes painted on the trimmed spindle stick.

Wrap enough red cotton thread or yarn of a natural fiber around the spindle stick to form a significant ball. Don't knot the thread; hold the initial loose end of the thread sideways along the spindle, starting at the notch. Wind the other end of the thread around this, gradually making a diamond-shaped ball. It's easiest to do this if you hold the thread taut in your most dexterous hand, and twirl the stick with the other, winding the thread onto it. There are a variety of methods you can feel out using both or either hand to make the ball. When you're done, tuck the loose end neatly into the thread ball. Leave this on your altar before the ritual.

THE RITUAL

Gather by a sacred tree and body of water, or by a hearth and the "well", which should be placed in front of an altar. Fill a horn or cup with mead or another drink offering. Just prior to beginning, pick up the spindle and place it on the ground, thrusting it into the earth beside the well in front of the altar.

Blot -

Pick up the horn and say:

Snow-haired Goddess, Protectress of the lost and vulnerable, you who gather all dead children to your breast, and shake your feather blankets out into the gentle snows, I come here to honor you today.

I hallow and drink this red drink, the tart blood of berries, to symbolize the life that flows through my veins, connecting me with the past, present and future.I share this drink with you in thanks for your aid!

(raise the horn)

Hail Frau Holle!

Take a sip, then pass the horn if more than one person is present. All of you should toast Holle in turn. Pour the horn out into the well and place it back onto the altar or gently beside the well on the ground.

Spindle Offering -

Pick up the spindle, leaving a tail of thread at the base of the well. Sit quietly holding it, spending some time to think about your needs and concerns and offer them silently to Frau Holle with your thanks when you feel ready. If more than one person is present, gently unwind the spindle as you hand it to your neighbor, holding onto the thread until you are all finished. The last person should stand or sit beside the well. Now, one by one, as you gently let the thread go, winding it back onto the spindle, let go of your worries, trusting that your needs shall be met, and trust Holle to give you some response in the weeks ahead. (Wind the spindle and hold it above the well, saying:)

Frau Holle, I offer this you!

(drop spindle in well)

Thank you for all you have done and continue to do. Hail!

Simply walk respectfully away from a natural area. Otherwise, leave your offering in the well for time, then pour the water and drink offering out onto the ground and bury the spindle with care and respect where it will not be found-- preferably right where the well was poured. Please do not cast the spindle into a shallow or moving body of water where it is likely to entangle or harm any wildlife, especially waterfowl who are sacred to Holle!

The act of immersing the spindle in water or letting it sink into a deep pond, and pouring out the "well" then burying the spindle, will carry away any negative energies that may have remained on the spindle. The spindle itself then becomes your offering.

Cross-posted to staffandcup.com/spindle-ritual.Please do not republish or re-post this ritual without my permission. Feel free to link to it, however! Thank you.

The Urglaawe native faith of Germany, practiced by the Pennsylvania Deutsch, is quite different from Asatru. Holle is worshiped as the head of pantheon and Deutsch tradition contains much oral lore not found in Snorri Sturleson's writings or the Poetic Edda, including a warmer perspective on the Gods and worship of Tyr's wife, Zisa, lady of Victory. Deutsch tradition also includes its own guardian spirits of place, who followed immigrants over into the United States from Germany: http://urglaawe.org

I wish I could say I clearly remember the rest of what happened, the songs sung and the words elegantly spoken, or the order in which things were done beforehand, but I don't. There's a very tall, long-armed God standing beside me in that other awareness, called by us, too, to pay his respects. I know my husband well, and knowing him well, I don't remember the conversation about the rite that passes silently between us.

The funny thing is, I remember exactly what happened after this. Each word I spoke. Each choice I made. And why. At no moment do I lose consciousness, control, or self.

Lugh comes up behind me and puts his hands on both my shoulders, familiarly. I'm comforted by his youth and his vigor, the sense of his body hardened by many feats, hale and unscarred, resting warm against my back. Of his large hands that know so well how to play the harp, and other things besides….

Let me come into you, he asks. Anchor me in this place.

I think Lugh wants to watch from my eyes, feeling the rite through my experience, that in the way of seið I'll be aware of his gaze and his mood flowing through me. If I knew what he asked, would I have said—

Okay.

Be still, Lugh whispers. It's alright. I won't hurt you. I can feel it… He puts his arm around my waist, pulling me closer… and steps forward. Into me.

There's a strange, sharp buzzing at my soul's root, that rises up my spine, like I've stepped too close to an electric field. Only the current runs inside of me, flowing into all of me, and I can feel where his soul overlaps mine, enveloping my body. Bare feet, sinewy calves, and a heavy gold torque at my collarbone. A tunic, as well as my own shorts, grazing my knee. The grass is cool under my feet, thrumming with life. He told me to wear yellow, his color, to the rite, and now I know why.

Then I do something I would never do.

I stop the senior Druid in the middle of his rite. As if I am entitled to it.

My strides are longer, fierce, away from the circle and behind the altar. I feel the earth distinctly with each step. The senior Druid stares at me, stopped mid-sentence, as I hold my arm out for my own hefty hammer, a solid block of iron with my grandfather's name carved into the wooden handle and a red Slavic sun wheel, the kolovorat, painted on its base. The same hammer that I hallow with, that my friend has used these last three rites to open the gates.

I'm told my voice was far lower, then, that I stood taller. I heard none of this. I am not a tall woman. I am not a short woman, either. My voice is always shockingly lighter in recordings than it sounds to my own ears. I feel it reverberate.

"Give me the hammer! I stand for Lugh!"

I don't like the wide look in my friend's eyes, as he hands the hammer to me, but I don't have time to consider it. Nor the shocked, silent stares around the circle. Lugh is the gatekeeper we invoked. This needs to be done.

My mortal self totally knows better than this.

I stride forward, back around to the front of the altar. I kneel and heft the hammer's weight up above my head, swinging with both hands, booming:

"LET THE GATES BE OPENED!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The hammer hits the earth and bounces back. And so do I.

This is not my own strength, and I tumble back from the momentum, dazed and winded, as the hammer somersaults out of my much smaller, mortal grip, leaving a dent in the moist ground. I collect my dignity. For a moment— whose confusion is this?— I have no idea where to place the hammer, whether it's more respectful to leave it on the ground as it lies or set it back upon the altar.

Lugh offers no words of advice. But then he's not a watcher, but a participant. This part is not an ancient rite. The hammer just seemed appropriate to bring. Why would he know the proper gesture any more than I?

Everyone is still staring at me.

I shrug, get up smoothly, and lift the hammer, putting it back beside the flowers on the altar. Had this been mortal me alone, I would have been embarrassed. Instead, I am weary with the weight of leading my own mother's funeral, of so many eyes upon me when I would rather be alone. Love, not duty, impels me to stay. I turn and tell the people what must be done next. These words are not my mortal words. My voice is thick, strained:

"Follow me, and place which flowers you will upon the bier."

I walk up to the altar and pick another sunflower, a bright yellow one from my own garden, then kneel and kiss Tailtiu's grass breast, laying the pollen-dusted blossom at her feet.

"Goodbye, mother. Go in peace, Great Queen, and return to us rejoicing in the spring."

I blink back tears as I turn away from the assembly. The People of Danu are not supposed to cry for her. Not even her son.

Why I kneel at the base of the bier as if I am welcoming her, with my head bowed to the earth and arms arched out, fingers lightly touching the ground, I do not know. I am not privy to Lugh's thoughts, as he does not invade mine, just his heart and his actions that we both share. I know that I must do this. That no one else can. The effort pains me. My body is not a man's body; my arms are not so long as Lugh's, even if they must be his now. My arms shake and my breath feels heavy.

Still, I call out to the assembly:

"Tailtiu, mother of us all! Bless these people with the strength of your sacrifice! May we honor your memory with joy and not tears, remembering all that you have done!"

We each draw a mix of garden flowers, herbs and wildflowers I'd gathered this morning to lay across the bier, saying our respects to Tailtiu and our own dead. My heart hurts as I watch the people choose flowers, even as their individual feelings touch me. I do not expect the big-hearted man to choose the orange roses, nor people to lay the flowers spread out along the bier, rather than in a circle around my mother. I stay kneeling, holding our collective hopes and love out to the earth, until each offering to her has been made.

When this is done, I bow, get up and pour water from the empty vase behind each person at the assembly, following Tailtiu's faint whispers about how much each person needs as their blessing, saving just enough at the last for the senior Druid. No one planned this part, either.

Lugh steps back from me so gently, I don't know when I cease being united with him and become simply aware of him as the ritual continues. When it comes time to give our own offerings to the well, I feel funny leaving the offering I brought for Lugh, and I hesitate. I mean, I was him. Like two minutes ago. And it's just red jasper, fiery unpolished stone, gathered from dry washes. It suddenly seems… humble. I have no heavy, noble torque, no warrior's gift like the one I felt around his own throat.

Lugh smiles sadly, gently, standing nearby.

I'm still here. And you're still you. Go on.

I do, giving some gifts to the honored dead as well. A mortal hero who was made a saint, and died in flames. Sainthood does not negate her worth or valor, regardless of the difference in our beliefs. A daughter lost by a beloved friend.

It's my job as Tailtiu's child to say the last goodbyes. I'm no longer both myself and Lugh, but I still know what to do with the remaining flowers. What her son would do. There are just enough left to completely blanket Tailtiu's body in a living shroud. I pour the remaining vase water as an offering. Then we fold the bier up under her, and carefully lay her down on top the well of offerings, closing the funeral rite.

Let the games begin!

***

I've never had a thing for mother Goddesses, because my own mother did not nurture me. Until adulthood, it was the kinder men in my life who championed me, mentored me, taught me self-respect and confidence and not deference to a male— or anyone else's— will. Growing up, I could count on the older women in my mother's fundamentalist church, while sometimes sympathetic, to consistently undermine me. Because, after all, they'd chosen obedience to men and needed to justify that choice, even if they lived to resent it. I hadn't. My mother had raised me in it.

But I trust Tailtiu in a way I never trusted anyone other than fiercely kind warrior Goddesses. Because myth or not, symbolic or not, she chose to raise the God I love— a man cruelly rejected by his own mother. And that makes her, by extension, family.

Hail Tailtiu! Hail the Great Giver, the Earth in all her valor, by whatever local names and distinct personhoods we give her. Hail her even when she's not a she. Hail her and ponder her endless sacrifice. Of her bounty of plants and creatures we eat, so that we all might live. Of her minerals and plants we take to shape into our resources to make our goods. To nourish every one of us, something else of beauty and worth must die or be transformed.

It's not humble, it's holy to acknowledge that.

Aside from scattered poetic reference, and verbal tradition peculiar to individual Irish families or localities, Tailtiu's story is told in two sources: The Book of Conquests and the Metrical Dindshenchas. It's a remarkable commonality that the idea of Earth as the ultimate Giver occurs across cultures, from Pandora to Mokosh, to Gefiun and Tailtiu. Even the root-name for several deities of earth shares a common sound, ge, found in the Egyptian male earth God Geb, to the more familiar Grecian Ge or Gaiaand Danish Gefiun (widely thought to be Freyja, according to Snorri Sturleson), all names meaning some variant of 'Giver' or 'Gift'. Like Tailtiu, the Egyptian God Wesir (Osiris) was also buried with elaborate funeral rites— in the form of grain.

Women ploughing the earth by themselves, at night and in secret, was an important Slavic ritual to end disaster and plague, by releasing the power of the mighty earth to purify the surrounding land and community. Men who witnessed this rite or interfered with it were often harshly punished: women's primal power was not to be trifled with. The Celts ranged widely in Europe, including in lands, like Poland, now considered Slavic. This may shed some light on why Tailtiu alone ploughed the field that became her funeral plain.

Tailtiu's late summer commemorative funeral games, historically held at Telltown, have been dubbed 'The Irish Olympics'. This tradition is shared in other localities, named for the local Goddess buried there, a person often somehow related to Lugh. Over the centuries, the feats of skill in agriculture, homesteading and the arts evolved into the more familiar county fairs.

Quite curiously, Lugh the torch-bearing God also bears many similarities with Odin (including owning a spear that never misses, being a God of bards and father of heroes, and coming from the same ancient proto-Indo-European root-god, Nodens) outside the scope of this article.

There is no clean land in all of Ireland, no fields not blood-soaked nor polluted by tears and death, for the Great War had raged across the land for ages. The war and its reasons, the dead and their Kings, their celebrated champions no longer matter. One royal husband slain and the victor wed, and Tailtiu, still Queen of Ireland, never took part in the fighting.

What matters to her is that the children of Ireland and their surviving parents, both tribes now living as one, will have no food come winter. Their fields have been trampled by war.

None of the exhausted warriors, who lie nursing grievous wounds or struggle to bury their comrades (fathers, brothers, friends and nephews, uncles and sons), thought of that.

Tailtiu, great Queen of the Fir Bolg once and now of the Children of Danu, knows what must be done. With all her dignity and strength and Godly magnitude of will, she hefts an axe and walks to the virgin forest covering the last clean, flat land in all of Ireland…

***

The smell of thyme fills the air as I gently lay a grass doll down in the lush green shade of elms, with all due reverence, as if I'm handling a small, fragile mother. I am. On an early August afternoon, I sit down in a park to finish what I'd started on my patio. Tailtiu's body, made of tall grass let gone to seed, came from my back yard. The brushy curl of Scottish broom,however, along with bunches of purple-blossomed wild herbs and broad seed heads that will finish off her effigy, were plucked from the Senior Druid's lawn.

Clouds linger on the horizon of a summer-blue sky. The air and the ground are still moist from last night's storms; you learn to taste these subtle changes in humidity in the desert. I welcome the coolness.

It's Lughnasadh, and my ADF Druid Grove is gathered here to celebrate the heroic death of great Foster-Mother Tailtiu, she who raised Lugh, and bury her with games, mirth and rejoicing— as she asked the Children of Danu, long ago. It's Lugh's day, too, because her beloved son called the Assembly this day is named for, leading both the games and the funeral rites.

Like the Norse Goddess Gefion, Tailtiu plowed a mythic field, a Giant's endeavor, clearing both trees and stones away so the land could be worked.

Unlike Gefion, she had no team of mammoth oxen-sons to help her plough it, and dies each year of exhaustion.

Tailtiu's quiet valor is no less than her warrior son and husbands'. She dies protecting everyone, regardless of which side they battled on in the war, fighting that life may not only continue, but renew.

A Funeral For a Goddess

Keep me in the shade until you bury me, Tailtiu whispers in my mind, the same way she showed us what needed to be done for her funeral rites. Serene and gentle, I feel her calm, motherly presence flow from her through my hands and into the earth as I fill out Tailtiu's skirt with the thyme, tucking it in around her legs on all sides with dignity, and give her two bushy braids of grain heads flowing over her chest. She insisted that I tie off her two legs properly at the knee, and make her two good braids, not just the loop of seedy grass I'd twisted into place to represent her head and hair. I'd bent her long straw arms in peaceful repose across her chest, and now I tuck a fat grain stalk between her hands.

My doll finished, I carry Tailtiu through the leafy shadows and carefully set her down on the strip of white cloth folded in front of the altar, where she can rest, at last, from her labors. Another woman kneels with me. We stretch out the long muslin bier, according to Tailtiu's wishes, that another friend had helped me purify earlier with incense smoke. Reverently, I set down two yellow-orange California poppies flanking her like torches, then lay a full, rusty sunflower at her head, and golden desert wildflowers at her feet.

In the summer heat, the Senior Druid and I mix honey with the flour I was called to bring, kneading both in a silver bowl. I clean my hands in the well water, letting the honey dissolve into it as an offering. The Senior Druid figures out how to bless the assembly with the paste, smearing a bit of the sweet-smelling, sticky mixture on each of our hands as he goes around the gathered circle. He dusts both of my hands liberally with it, surprising me, and walks back to the altar.

We wait quietly for a moment for the rite to begin.

The icon of Lugh silently watches us, off to the side.

"We have come to honor the Goddess Tailtiu and her foster-son Lugh as the Gatekeeper…."

***

Hoofbeats thunder beneath the trees. A smell of loam, and mown fields, hay drying in the sun beyond them. Golden hair, the color of ripe wheat stalks, and a long green dress flow in the wind. White horse, flecked with sweat. The bare-earth road is broad and sunk into the forest, as if dug long ago by a Giant's winding plow. Thick, ancient boughs arch high above me.

Blazing light— is she carrying a star?— no, a torch—

As the Goddess passes, she calls out to me encouragingly, and thrusts a long, burning torch into my hands, a torch as long as Lugh's spear, and rides on.

In an instant, a circle of similar torches rains down from the sky, sinking into the ground behind each of us gathered for the rite. Fire draws a ring around us, flowing from torch-tip to torch tip, until the circle is closed—

"Will our bard step forward and tell the tale of Tailtiu…?"

….What?I'm barely back from trance. One foot of my awareness lingers in that other place, stumbling back to mortal time—

The Senior Druid's looking at me.

Bard? I hardly—

Everyone is looking at me.

I take a deep breath, and step beside the bier, in front of the assembly of friends and strangers.I've never been a gifted verbal storyteller. How do I become one now?

I don't know the words until I'm saying them, a graveside eulogy for a hero, told by a son for his mother.

"There was no clean land left in all of Ireland…" I say. Or something like that. I know when I'm finished, because just as I have no more words, the Senior Druidl nods to me again, and thanks me, and I step back.

Aside from scattered poetic reference, and verbal tradition peculiar to individual Irish families or localities, Tailtiu's story is told in two sources: The Book of Conquests and the Metrical Dindshenchas. It's a remarkable commonality that the idea of Earth as the ultimate Giver occurs across cultures, from Pandora to Mokosh, to Gefiun and Tailtiu. Even the root-name for several deities of earth shares a common sound, ge, found in the Egyptian male earth God Geb, to the more familiar Grecian Ge or Gaiaand Danish Gefiun (widely thought to be Freyja, according to Snorri Sturleson), all names meaning some variant of 'Giver' or 'Gift'. Like Tailtiu, the Egyptian God Wesir (Osiris) was also buried with elaborate funeral rites— in the form of grain.

Women ploughing the earth by themselves, at night and in secret, was an important Slavic ritual to end disaster and plague, by releasing the power of the mighty earth to purify the surrounding land and community. Men who witnessed this rite or interfered with it were often harshly punished: women's primal power was not to be trifled with. The Celts ranged widely in Europe, including in lands, like Poland, now considered Slavic. This may shed some light on why Tailtiu alone ploughed the field that became her funeral plain.

Tailtiu's late summer commemorative funeral games, historically held at Telltown, have been dubbed 'The Irish Olympics'. This tradition is shared in other localities, named for the local Goddess buried there, a person often somehow related to Lugh. Over the centuries, the feats of skill in agriculture, homesteading and the arts evolved into the more familiar county fairs.

Quite curiously, Lugh the torch-bearing God also bears many similarities with Odin (including owning a spear that never misses, being a God of bards and father of heroes, and coming from the same ancient proto-Indo-European root-god, Nodens) outside the scope of this article.

An Open Letter from a Mixed Ugric and Black Heathen:

by Lanaya Winterly

Lanaya's letter first appeared on a Heathen board I frequent and touched me deeply as someone who has experienced similar prejudices and a frustration with a lack of source material for Polish Paganism in the US. Despite stereotypes, Lanaya's story is not an outlier for Heathenry. Nor is she the only black Heathen I have met.

I wanted to share this post with you for several reasons. The neighboring Ugric Siberian peoples (often called 'Finns' in the lore) have had a profound influence on Heathenry, including sharing myths and likely giving us several of our Gods-- from the understanding of thundering Thor as a redhead to the huntress Skadi. The Norse understanding of the shamanic art of seið is also credited as originating with the Saami by multiple scholars, as well as galdr (song-magic), of which they were said to be masters.

Thank you, Lanaya, for letting me share this.

I wonder when the time will come where Heathen groups actively discuss the wrongs that have been done to other neighboring cultures, instead of glorifying raids, thus perpetuating stereotypes. I also wonder when we as Heathens will start letting others incorporate their practices from other northern European branches of religion into ceremony, prayer and other aspects of daily life without being shunned for it.

As a woman who's Ugric as well and black, I would love to incorporate my heritage and shamanism into my practice without being torn into for not being strictly western Scandinavian. To be fair I'm one of the few people who can actually say they're native to northern Europe. Not that blood matters, though. On a personal level I find it very disheartening that because of imperialism I can't find a solid language resource center with Uralic language families in it

I would like the right to use drums and not be called New Age as well as the right to read the Kalevala and call myself a Heathen. I would really love to not be accused of dying my hair, because the pigmentation I have was inherited through southern Finland and southwestern Baltic territory.

Using my name as it was given should be allowed in a digital space without others assuming I’m a wannabe anime character. My name ‘Mika’, is catholic Finnish, because my parents like me could not find a solid translation for the name Michaela in Hebrew and mistakenly gave me the northern European variation of the name.

On another more serious note would people please make an effort to not exotify Finnish or African American women within our community? We’re not unicorns or sex dolls. We're not exotic, we just happen to be more Asiatic looking, and we've been here longer than most. Could we Finns and Ugric people have our land back, so I might have a chance at raising children without having to worry about a school and government system that passive aggressively still punishes Uralic and Ugric minorities for complaining when their children stop speaking the native language?

I would like to live in a world where I could in the near future go to a country with a population that can claim it has a modern revival of Asatru and not be cursed at for having slanted eyes, or (as I’ve heard) denied bus passes because my facial features might be too Uralic or Western Siberian for a prejudiced bus driver to stomach. Sadly enough, in some countries like Sweden and Russia some of the older generations view minorities in the same light that Americans view Romani families.

My wanting to celebrate my tribal heritage and roots should be no reason for someone to call me ‘Wicca-tru’— a term which I find offensive because it hits a wound so deep seated in the cultural banishment that Finnish, Slavic and Baltic Heathens often face for being open about their roots. We need to end passive cultural supremacy, and stop separating each other on a basis of language source, interest or celebration of ancestry, because it's disrespectful, it's ignorant and erases sources from existence through adaptation without representation

The issue of the mistreatment of minority groups stems beyond Heathenry and dips into historically rooted governmental issues in countries where people looking for land rights are labeled environmental terrorists. I am no terrorist, I am no neo pagan…. I’m an Ugric , Celtic, Slavic, Black, Nordic, Baltic, and native American Heathen who has grown up not being treated equally by her peers because of her appearance and religious affiliation. It needs to end, and I hope it starts with me.